


Alone

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya copes after a mission has gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Written in February 2006 for a mfuwss beta challenge.

ALONE 

The drive in from the airport was fast. Not much traffic at that late hour. It was cold out, with clear skies allowing a few brave stars to shine down on the city. He drove in silence, keeping his mind focused on nothing but the road before him. Nonetheless, he was surprised by the familiar lights of a traffic signal just ahead. 

It was the final intersection before he would turn left toward his office or right toward his apartment. 

It had been a long day and he wished fervently to be home. At the red light he considered his options. Normally, there were no options. Normally, no matter how tired he was, he went to his office and doggedly wrapped things up. But tonight he needed the quiet. He wanted everything to be quiet for a while. No thinking. No people. Alone. 

But the tasks to be completed after the mission were best done immediately. At the office. Sighing, he drove to the underground garage, signed the vehicle back into the fleet, and entered his second home - the fortress known to a select group of human beings as North American Headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement: U.N.C.L.E. 

The night-duty receptionist was young, smiling as he approached. Her smile froze at his curt reply to her greeting. She scrabbled through the rack of identification badges, found his and activated it, and pushed it toward his outstretched hand, nearly tossing it in her haste to be rid of it. Startled, he caught the badge and grimaced at her apologetic "Oops, sorry, Mr. Kur-." Her voice faltered, her confidence crushed by his look. 

He turned past her and clipped the badge to his lapel as the silver-gray steel doors guarding Section Two whispered an admonishment behind him. It occurred to him that perhaps someone knowledgeable in these things had tipped her to the fact that sometimes his badge was not to be fastened for him. That he sometimes disliked that sort of thing - the closeness. Like tonight. Tonight he did not want to be thinking about clumsy, fumbling receptionists and the polite reassurances one ought to make to the girl who was probably new and unused to the late ... he caught himself and stopped the rambling nonsense. 

In his office, he settled in at his desk. He dutifully recorded the oral brief for Mr. Waverly's immediate review. He sketched the outline of the longer, written report, due in twenty-four hours. He resigned himself to completing the draft, knowing the details would be easier to deal with in the morning. He contemplated the repercussions those details would cause. He pushed the thought away as he methodically cleaned his gun and filled clips by rote. 

Finally, when he could no longer put it off, he reported to Medical for the hated check-up. It was required. It was an irritation. It was a waste of time. He had skipped this last step often enough to bring the wrath of Waverly down upon him, complete with a reprimand and a no-exceptions order to complete the medical check. He reluctantly complied. 

Thirty minutes later, his release approved, he made straight for home. The receptionist did not smile this time. She fixed her eyes on his proffered hand and accepted his badge without a word. 

Out on the street, the cab was waiting. The bored cabbie asked nothing more than "Where to?" He provided the address and matched the driver's silence with his own. When they arrived, he handed over the fare, exited the cab and headed directly to his door. 

The nondescript apartment building was dark inside, hushed and dimmed for the night. His solitary footsteps scuffed against the stairs, sounding louder than he liked in the quiet passageway. With keys already in hand, he inspected his door for signs of tampering. Satisfied that his signals were undisturbed, he unlocked the door and entered his apartment. 

He closed the door and automatically checked the panel on the wall at his right, just above the light switch. The security light winked a green all-is-well. He ignored it.   
Standing still in the darkness for a few moments, he watched and listened. The refrigerator hummed a low greeting from the kitchen. I need to eat, he thought. 

He turned on the light and the living room came to life. He prowled the apartment, looking here and there until he was certain things were secure. He sat on the couch with his coat still on and closed his eyes. He slept. When he woke, the night hung on. His head ached. He got up, hung his coat in the closet, turned off the light, and returned to the couch. He sat unmoving until he emerged from a dark dream he could not remember. It was not yet morning. 

Restless, he stood up and moved across the room. He shoved his hands in his pockets, curling his fingers together and pushing them down deep. He thought of the little girl. He felt her soft hand slipping from his desperate, half-handed grasp. He had thought he would crush the little finger bones. He saw her eyes grow wide with fear and heard the shrill cry rise from her throat as she fell. 

He drifted closer to the window. He caught his eyes in the cold glass. He frowned at the blame staring back at him and shifted his gaze beyond the reflection to the darkened street below. The night street was cloaked in gray and black. Cold. Empty. Lifeless. Soothing. He studied it, trying to absorb the stillness. Something tightened in his throat. He swallowed and shook his head once, to throw the mood off. He clamped his jaw shut and breathed in roughly, pulling the air in deep, then blowing it out hard, hurling it against the emotion. But his eyes welled up in spite of it. He remembered long ago. His small hand held by a larger hand. He remembered the comfort of its warmth. He remembered being alone. He thought of the little girl. Alone. 

His eyes burned, and he closed them for a few moments. When his body swayed, he moved from his standing slumber to lie curled on the couch. He slept restlessly, traveling again to the dark little hell where small things are large, where images are jumbled and unfamiliar, where panicked voices cannot be understood. Where the hands reach to him, the hands stretch and strain toward him but he can never, never close the gap, no matter how many times he tries. 

The End

  
  
  



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